2014.01.08 - Dad! No!
The Clocktower - Oracle's Operation Center The entire top floor of the Clocktower has been engineered to be Oracle's lair, her operations center. The ceiling is a good thirty feet up, thanks to the giant clock window that makes up the wall opposite the elevator. Cantilevered beams create a maze of rafters and catwalks overhead -- accessible by ramps and winch lifts. In the center of the room stands a semi-circular technology console that faces the window. A number of displays hang on moveable arms, the biggest one in the center of them all. There is no chair because Oracle always brings her own. Keyboards and peripherals cover the surface of the workstation, all within easy reach. Other workstations stand at the ends of the room -- a crime lab, a forensics analysis center, and a de facto clean room for the creation and storage of delicate technical systems. Additionally, a simply furnished lounge sits in a corner, is a large flatscreen tv and a mess of video game consoles within its confines. Standing not so far from the shrouded lift leading down to Barbara's apartment is a dark mannequin garbed in the dark cowl and formfitting uniform of the first superheroine to claim the name Batgirl, protected by a glass dome -- a little piece of sentimental nostalgia in what is otherwise a monument to the future. ---- "The shooter was on a rooftop at Keane and Silvestri," Oracle says into her mic, adjusting the modified Starktech glasses in front of her eyes to shift their view slightly. She pushes away from her chair and crosses toward a worktable that has a black suit laid out upon it. Adjusting a light above it, she turns to a nearby console and punches up information on the suit. DELPHI's feed is going through the tech glasses. "He had a perfect, if distant view of the route towards the Hudson bridge. He picked his shot, just as the Daredevil was at the apex of his swing." Not, mind, that she's gleaned a whole lot of information about the Daredevil, other than what a wide media search could dig up. Well, that and the observations of her operatives at the safehouse to which she evacuated the wounded hero a couple of days before. "I suspect that the Kingpin hired him; he's been moving some of his operations into the Gotham waterfront and, if what I saw was any indication, Daredevil's bedevilling him for it. The men on foot were mercenaries, I'm pretty sure the shooter was the same. So, watch yourself." "Got it," Nightwing responds as he pulls back the throttle on his cycle. The black crotch rocket roars louder as the black/blue helmeted hero is slung down the Boulevard. He weaves in and out of traffic, narrowly avoiding other drivers who have less impetus to get moving. Within moments hes finding a quiet place to park. "So tell me about this Daredevil dude," he mutters as he climbs near silently. "Well, for starters," Babs replies, watching his progress on a little GPS display in the corner of her vision, "he's blind. I wasn't sure at first, but the agent I had patch him up in Metropolis confirmed it. But, the way he moves? I'm sure he 'sees' somehow. Just don't ask me how. I haven't figured that out, yet. All I know is he was swinglining through Gotham like he was one of us." She smooths out a portion of the suit and begins carefully applying a thin mesh weave overtop of it, following the the seams and stretching it from edge to edge before applying a low charge of electricity. "His territory is normally Hell's Kitchen. Most of the headlines he's garnered are in relation to hits against Kingpin's operations, which, I think, explains why he crossed the river. Still... I'm hoping he doesn't intend to make it too regular an occurance. You know. Just in case." Batman probably wouldn't appreciate the interloper. "Sounds like an interesting dude. I share your hopes, of course.". Nightwing grows silent as he reaches the apex and searches for clues regarding the shooting. Out of a gauntlet comes a small blue light that he seems to be using to attempt to find residue of some sort. "He cute." "Didn't get a look at his face," Babs replies, arching a brow faintly and looking up from what she's doing. Then, *spark!* "Ow! Crap." She drops the heat tool on a nearby tray and shoves burnt fingers automatically into her mouth for a moment or two. They come out, however, for a teasing, "But he had great arms." And she's a sucker for arms and shoulders, as Dick might know. "What're you seeing? Anything?" The shooter was a professional. Laid a mat down where his gun rested, and picked up the spent casing afterward. But, there are scuff marks where his case was set and a depression in the wet, lingering snow that suggests where the mat might have been. "Didn't get a look at his face," Babs replies, arching a brow faintly and looking up from what she's doing. Then, *spark!* "Ow! Crap." She drops the heat tool on a nearby tray and shoves burnt fingers automatically into her mouth for a moment or two. They come out, however, for a teasing, "But he had great arms." And she's a sucker for arms and shoulders, as Dick might know. "What're you seeing? Anything?" The shooter was a professional. Laid a mat down where his gun rested, and picked up the spent casing afterward. But, there are scuff marks where his case was set and a depression in the wet, lingering snow that suggests where the mat might have been. "Sounds hot." Nightwing steps over to where the shots were fired and pulls out a binocular type device. He looks through the looking glass and begins tonfidget with the controls. "Found the spot, Inbelieve. Sending the information. If you could run it through the simulator there may be a back rub in it for...you okay?" "'M fine," Babs says with a bit of peevishness -- the self-directed kind. "Just burnt my fingers on the mesh I was applying to the suit." He might not approve, but, yes, she's building herself a new suit. This one, a little more high tech than the one that sits enshrined across the room. Still, her tone takes on a slight purr -- which is impressive, given the androgynous digitization that is Oracle, instead of the woman who gives her life. "But, I'll hold you to that backrub..." To DELPHI, then, "Incorporate Nightwing's information into the recording footage and extrapolate." "Yes, Oracle," the AI replies. "Working." Babs turns back to the suit, for a moment, but pauses as one of the readouts on her visor shifts. "Nightwing? I've got thermals lighting up behind you," she says... as the sound of a heavy metal door, the roof access, opens and a pair of large men in black bike leathers come out. One is midway through lighting a cigarette when he pauses, staring over his cupped hands at the black and blue vigilante on the room. His buddy swears, and retreats hastily back into the building. "I see them," Nightwing pauses, looking over his shoulder at the window and formulates his exit strategy before a hand slowly goes to his hip. "Your friend not like parties?" "Who da hell're... Aw fuck. You're a Bat, ain't ya." The man reaches for his belt, loosening it and pulling it out. It's a chain, held on with hooks rather than locks. "You ain't s'posed to be here..." Hearing the bruiser through Dick's earpiece, Babs mutters, "Yeah, yeah, what else is new?" But, all she can think about is how Dick's still fresh from that beating in the alleyway. So, to him: "Watch yourself." The man wraps the chain partially around one fist and flicks his cig away, lumbering forward. Meanwhile, DELPHI makes her report. "Information integrated," she tells Oracle. "Also, there is an outstanding alert from 1532 Hawkeye Rd." "There's a what?" Babs head comes up again, and it's probably just as well she hasn't yet picked up her tool. "Display." At the final moment, Nightwing changes course. His confidence in his abilities led him first to consider his escrima sticks; his normal weapon of choice. Seemingly, however, he senses Barbara's apprehension, and instead decides to fling an electrified wing-ding towards the man's throat. Distance makes the heart fonder. And healthier. And the ribs. And the collarbone. And pretty much anythingbelse too. It's true. Especially in Nightwing's case. The bruiser moves in for the swing, but glurks on the wing-ding that catches his neck. Then, there's a lot of aiaiaiaiaiaiaiai, followed by a heavy slump as his knees give out and he twists into a boneless mass. Be that as it may, heavy footsteps can be heard echoing on the stairs beyond the door, and the heavy steel slab slams open to disgorge half-a-dozen more. These, however, move like they actually know what they're doing. But, Babs is distracted. DELPHI displays the alert and her eyes grow wide. "Oh my god. Dad." Her hand comes up to her face, on her mic. "Nightwing. Someone's kidnapped the Commissioner." It's only years of self-discipline that keep her from blurting out names like 'Dick' and 'Dad'. Because this is family. The news seems to jar Nightwing, and he needs to try especially hard to focus. The six men enter and the hero seems to be drawing them in like a Quarterback on an option play. As they come at him he flings three tear gas balls at them. "What?" he asks, careful tongetbthat rebreather in his mouth before he gets something nasty in there. Babs is moving from the tech table back to her console suite, now. She nearly spins her chair as she throws herself into it, twisting to start inputting parameters on a keyboard while calling to DELPHI as she does. "In the future, DELPHI, interrupt whatever I'm doing to ensure I see that sort of alert. Now, get me a simulation of events. I want full-scan facial rec and time breakdown, as fast you can generate them." "Disengage," she tells Dick, now, "if you can. I've got DELPHI working on re-creation and I'm pulling everything GCPD has on it." Because, by now, they'd have noticed he was missing. As for Daredevil's shooter? He's small potatoes compared to this. Of course, disengaging may not be immediately easy. Certainly, the three to encounter the gas go down quickly, choking and coughing horribly, but their buddies are scrambling out of the way as the first clouds plume. That said, at least one of them starts coughing as the wind shifts favourably, but he doesn't collapse like the others. "One more for the road," Nightwing says darkly. In happier moments, Babs might hearken back to their youth and Dick's previous penchant for quips. flashBANG! As soon as the device erupts, Nightwing is already crashing through the window. His hand reaches to his jumpline while he mutters, "Meet." His motorcycle roars its engine and begins, inexplicably, to zoom away on its own. It's been a long time since then, however. And Babs knows that Dick will doubtlessly see this current crisis as pressing as she. As she waits for results, she pushes her chair back and shoves out of it again, pacing back and forth. Her steps take her across the room, and she stops, looking up at the enshrined suit and the symbol on its chest. The remaining men are military trained, but they're not carrying military equipment. So, the flashbang disorients them, allowing Nightwing to make good his escape. Nightwing swoops through the air at an angle just as the bike makes its way underneath him. His jumpline releases just as he lands upon the cycle, it sparks as itbtrails behind him and the vehicle. Nightwing presses, pushing the bike faster and faster, headed for the Tower. "Until you've got a destination, Gordon," Babs mutters to herself, staring at the old suit, "there's no point." Determinedly, she turns away, her GPS tracking program following Dick's progress through the city. She returns to her console, though she doesn't sit. "DELPHI, transfer the re-creation into the holosuite as soon as it's ready." In the meantime, she picks up her tablet and transfers the GCPD stuff to it, starting to read quickly. They don't have much. Nightwing slides his vehicle onto its side and barely goes through the normal hiding procedures. His gun, the line still warm from its recent pull along the ground is shotbupwards again. A split second later, he gets pulled along with it. Within moments, hes walking through the door to Babs' war room, and begins pulling off his sweaty mask. "What have we got?" Babs expression is tight when Dick enters. She's laid her tablet to the side, and gestures to it. "More than the PD," she tells him, dryly. "All they really know is that he didn't show up to work and there's no sign of forced entry." DELPHI's voice reverbs slightly in the holosuite, however. "Re-creation is complete," the AI says. "Do you wish to view it, now?" "Yes," Babs snaps, hardly hiding her impatience in the least. She glances to Dick. "You know, if Dad knew how wired his home really is..." At her command, however, the holograms begin to play. A representation large enough to display in the whole room appears, beginning with the approach of a young woman in her late teens to the door. It then plays through the whole thing, the movements extrapolated from captured footage, from the moment the girl enters the house to the moment the vehicle that transported him away disappears down the street. Babs watches with a mixture of worry and anger, arms over her chest. "Find me that vehicle, DELPHI." Category:Log